Legacy
by Pureauthor
Summary: Let us see what sort of future shall reflect upon these... blind eyes...' He had promised to be there to see it. And so he did.


Legacy

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I own nothing.

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"We shall see… what sort of future… will reflect… on these blind eyes."

That was what he had said. Or near enough, anyway. Time had a way of distorting memory and blurring together images and words, until what was once clear and distinct faded away into a watercolour blur, several images that could be identified, but none clearly.

How long ago had it been when he had met her? On the order of centuries, at the very least. He had fought, and he had lost – the physical shell he'd used as a vessel to get around the world had been destroyed.

What had remained, of course, was his _real_ body – the one imprisoned beneath Ancardia so very long ago. Enmeshed in a web of chains, the form of the fallen angel lay silent in the darkness as the chaotic battle raged above it.

Over time, Nessiah managed to gather enough energy to himself so that he could create a second vessel. He briefly considered attempting to retrieve the Gran Centurio but thought the better of it – having been foiled at the penultimate stage of his grand scheme had a way of draining the fight out of you. Not to mention that Heaven was likely going to be paying extra attention to his actions anyway. Drawing _more_ of God's ire really wasn't a pleasurable option.

Instead he chose to watch and observe. He had heard Yggdra's resolution – her determination that war would never again ravage the lands. And at the end of it all, he had sworn – both to himself and to her – that he would be watching to see what came of it.

And so he did. It wasn't as if he had a whole lot of things to do, and he suspected that being left to his isolation for untold years would drive him further along the paths of madness than he had ever been before.

With blinded eyes shielded behind a mask, Nessiah silently watched over the proceedings of the world.

He was there as Yggdra's descendants – kings and queens of Fantasinia, ruled over the continent with both wisdom and justice, erecting shining monuments and golden cities.

He was there as year after year of bumper harvests occurred, to the point where it seemed to be the norm – the joy and contentment of the people were as palpable to him as the soil under his feet and the grass ticking his legs.

He was there as peace flourished, the rulers of the Kingdom working to ensure strong ties with all the remaining nations. A series of treaties and agreements descended on the nation, to the point that it appeared to Nessiah to function like cogs in a larger machine, each nation supplying and receiving in turn.

He was there as the Golden Age of Fantasinia dawned – the nation and its people reaching heights that that could never have dreamed of prior. He was there as the White Phoenix unfurled itself over a glorious, newly constructed palace, to the cheers of the populace. He was there as culture and the arts blossomed and people began to do things with the intent of improving themselves, growing as a nation.

He was there.

He was there, too, as shadows began to darken, and the perfect little world began to show its first hairline cracks.

He was there as the country forgot their ancient queen who had sworn never to uphold war again, and raised their standard across the battlefield, meeting their opponents in bloody conflict.

He was there as a king, incensed and paranoid, ordered the 'cleansing' of an entire town that he believed to harbour separatist tendencies. For months afterwards the smell of ash and burnt wood drifted through the region, stinging Nessiah's sensitive eyes, or what remained of them.

He was there as a young, hot-blooded male appeared, claiming to be a descendant of Gulcasa, the legendary Emperor of Carnage. An imposter, of course, but the Bronquian's didn't care. They rallied to him, demanding that they be allowed to exist as a free nation once more.

In response, Fantasinia unleashed the full might of its military against them. The continent was bathed in rivers of blood, and when the fighting had finally subsided, the cowed Bronquians were left once more to nurse their undying hatred for Fantasinia, and imposter's head was left impaled on a pike at the border between the two nations. Nessiah had once spent an entire afternoon staring dispassionately at the severed head of the would-be ruled, his rust-red head blowing in the wind, face distorted into a macabre sneer.

He was there as the country split itself in civil war, brother fighting brother, father killing son. When the winner finally retook the throne, more than half of the nation's best and brightest had been sacrificed to the consuming fires of war.

He was there.

For the life of him, Nessiah would never be able to comprehend why the Everlasting had decided to created such simple, flawed, fallible beings as humans.

Once, while standing on the outskirts of the capital of Paltina, unnoticed by the harried mass of people flowing in and out of the city, he felt a familiar presence.

"You…"

"You seem to be interested in the humans, Nessiah. Very much so, in fact." The voice, familiar and yet not – strong and commanding and at the same time loving and tender – like the voice of a father speaking to a beloved child.

Nessiah did not turn to face Him – the last time he had seen Him was as his divinity had been stripped from him – the first in a long series of punishments. In an instant, what had once been cool, refreshing light turned into blinding, suffocating fire. Nessiah and jerked away, and arm reaching up to cover his eyes, but it had been too late – in the single instant his eyeballs he melted, turning into rivulets of searing liquid that burned its way down his cheeks. Oh, how he had screamed.

"I am… puzzled by them." He said softly. "They are such frail, temporal beings. And yet… yet you've shown favour, care, and concern for them. I do not understand."

"No, you don't. And you can't. But one day, you will. And when you do… that will be when redemption shall come for you."

Nessiah simply stood still. A moment later, the presence was gone.

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Aside from the dealings of the Fantasinian empire, Nessiah also observed the rest of the great continent, watching over the lives of the many people that lived within it's limits.

He visited the home of the Undines, cloaking himself so that none could see him. He stood in the hall of the Transmigragem, remembering how he had stolen it away so very long ago.

He was there as the Undines expanded seaward, building beautiful floating cities away from the continent.

He was there as they dived deep, deep, ever deeper into the depths, finding rare gems and pearls to sell to the land-dwellers.

He was there as the grew, died and were reborn in and endless cycle, thanks to the powers of the Transmigragem.

And he was there when an uproar and a terrified cry came from the Hall, an Undine rushing out to stammer that the light of the gem was fading.

He was there as the harsh fact was finally confirmed – the magic of the gem had been spent – the Undines would never again be able to come back.

He was there as the Undine dredged up an old tale of human's blood being used as an elixir of eternal life – and Nessiah sighed to himself as he remembered being the person to have given them that crock of a recipe so long ago. He was there as they raided human villages, carrying away squealing infants to be bled dry and converted into the life-giving mixture.

He was there as Fantasinia retaliated – brutally, their warships smashing through the delicately crafted walls of the seaborne cities, laying waste to countless lives. He was there as the remaining survivors sued for clemency, and a chance to live their last days out in peace.

He was there as the last Undine, aged and decrepit, perished in her sleep, her breathing silenced once and for all.

He had never been one for sentimentality, but he carried her out onto the wreckage of one of the floating cities. There, he slowly brushed back the strands of her faded lavender hair behind her orange finlike ears, before silently releasing her to the dark waters of the ocean.

He had known her name once, long ago.

He was there as the Papacy was consumed from within by corruption and strife, Popes who cared nothing for the people or the God they professed to serve – merely for the weight of their wallets.

He had sworn to himself not to interfere any longer with the lives of humans, and so he did nothing, but at times he couldn't help but wonder why He didn't strike down these people who were so flagrantly misusing his name.

He was there as the Temple Knights grew and swelled, changing from the Bodyguard of the Temple to a functional, working army in its own right. He was there as the current Pope, drunk on success and power, began making more and more defamations against the Fantasinian government.

He was there as the monarch of Fantasinia paid for the assassination of the Pope, and thereafter declared that the rites of worship would now fall under the jurisdiction of the Palace.

He was there.

He was there as Fantasinia began to wane – riots, strikes, political infighting swelling almost daily.

He was there as the amounts of attempted coups against the established monarchy grew in number – and in size.

He was there at the meetings in which the arrogant, imperious queen dismissed such concerns with a wave of her hand, stating simply that the unwashed masses would never be able to organize themselves into a force that could oppose her.

He was there as the fractured, discontent people fell ever deeper into their disenfranchised states – to the point that when Bronquia once again began silently rebuilding its forces, no whistles were blown, with many resources being quietly sent off to aid their effort.

He was there when open rebellion was finally declared, and to the government's horror, the populace flatly refused to take up arms to defend a nation that had done nothing for them. Officials who traveled out to make the peasantry contributed to the war effort often vanished, to reappear several days later, impaled to, or hanging from, sturdy trees in the countryside.

He was there as the rebelling army fought all the way to the steps of the Royal Palace – the Queen hurling herself from the tallest tower rather than turn herself over to the rebels.

He was there as the hitherto unconquered gates of the Royal Palace were finally thrown open, allowing the marauders to swarm within.

He was there.

And he was there as the last blood descendant of Queen Yggdra Yuril Artwaltz, a lad no more than six years of age, was killed – his throat slit, his body dumped callously onto a pile of rubble.

He was there.

And there he remained, amid the looting and the bloodbath and the slaughter – hidden from the view of the humans, his blind eyes silently watching.

And when at long last an eerie quiet descended upon the burning capital, he stepped out of the shadows, towards the pale corpse of the boy.

He carried the boy out of the Palace, past the city gates, to a grassy hillock away from the walls of marble and stone.

There he dug a grave, and finally, he buried the last of the Artwaltz line.

As he stamped down the final clod of dirt, he lifted his gaze to stare at the city in the distance – great pillars of smoke rising up into the heavens.

Then he shifted his blind eyes once more to look upon the tiny mound he had just built.

"So this," he finally whispered. "Is your legacy… Yggdra."

Then, silent, he turned and strode away.

And then there was only the wind, blowing among the tall blades of grass.

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